---

Robert Laurence Binyon - The English Graves
Work rating: Low

The rains of yesterday are flown,
 And light is on the farthest hills;
 The homeliest rough grass by the stone
 To radiance thrills;

 And the wet bank above the ditch,
 Trailing its thorny bramble, shows
 Soft apparitions, clustered rich,
 Of the pure primrose.

 The shining stillness breathes, vibrates
 From simple earth to lonely sky,
 A hinted wonder that awaits
 The heart`s reply.

 O lovely life! the chaffinch sings
 High on the hazel, near and clear.
 Sharp to the heart`s blood, sweetness springs
 In the morning here.

 But my heart goes with the young cloud
 That voyages the April light
 Southward, across the beaches loud
 And cliffs of white

 To fields of France, far fields that spread
 Beyond the tumbling of the waves,
 And touches as with shadowy tread
 The English graves.

 There too is Earth that never weeps,
 The unrepining Earth, that holds
 The secret of a thousand sleeps
 And there unfolds

 Flowers of sweet ignorance on the slope
 Where strong arms dropped and blood choked breath,
 Earth that forgets all things but hope
 And smiles on death.

 They poured their spirits out in pride,
 They throbbed away the price of years:
 Now that dear ground is glorified
 With dreams, with tears.

 A flower there is sown, to bud
 And bloom beyond our loss and smart--
 Noble France, at its root is blood
 From England`s heart.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.